


Vitality Begun

by Ariss_Tenoh



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariss_Tenoh/pseuds/Ariss_Tenoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunter seeks answers where mortal men dare not tread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vitality Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Jan 12th 2013. For Lara who asked for "Coldfire and Knowledge."

 

 

 

_A Death blow is a Life blow to Some_  
Who till they died, did not alive become  
Who had they lived, had died but when  
They died, Vitality begun.

_Emily Dickinson_

 

 

There was an old saying from Earth: "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing".

 

Gerald Tarrant never believed in it and the man who became the Hunter most certainly did not. All knowledge was power and a means to power. It was to be sought, possessed, and cherished like something infinitely precious. The collection and preservation of old knowledge was the foundation of the Church, his greatest achievement, and his survival through the centuries could be equally measured in spilled blood and ancient ink and paper. Perhaps it was not so surprising then that the Hunter found himself standing in the heart of his citadel, in a room fortified against all the living and dead, and casting a very intricate and rare spell he had crafted from an old tome.

 

The fae seethed beneath his touch, light and shadow bent in unnatural ways, the very world shifted.....

 

.... The Hunter found himself almost prostrate on a stone floor and quickly rose; hand on the hilt of his sword.

 

_This room..._

 

"And who are you?" asked a playfully arrogant voice.

 

He turned quickly and looked into a face much like his own.

 

_No. The facial features are slightly more masculine, the shoulders broader. But as for everything else, he must be one of my descendants._

 

The man stepped into the light and Gerald could see him more clearly. The young man was dressed in rich fabrics with subtle but expensive embroidery along the neck, sleeves, and hem of his tunic. Strangely, he didn't seem to fear Gerald but was looking at him with great curiosity.

 

"Who are you?"

 

He smiled with a mischievous look and said, "I'm the Neocount of Merentha."

 

It was disconcerting to realise the man was taller than him, Gerald noticed the other man was careful to keep a sufficient distance between them.

 

"None of my descendants have leave to use that title."

 

The man walked in a circle around Gerald and said, "Father said your greatest flaw was your pride. I think he forgot about your bottomless curiosity." The man finally stopped with his back to the altar. "This room is proof of it. My however-many-great-grandfather had to remove sections from the walls in order to allow sunlight to enter it at all times of the day and the torches are lit all night. I was about to do so, if you'll excuse me."

 

Gerald said nothing, his mind whirling through the possibilities and its implications. This stranger spoke as if he had intimate knowledge of the Hunter beyond the legends and warnings handed down the generations in his family. The young man walked from one spot to another, lighting the torches on the stone walls with a box of matches and a deft turn of his wrist. The torches were covered by a pure iron net inscribed with protective runes which amplified the light. Someone clearly knew their art.

 

"You are not frightened of this room." It was a statement and a question.

 

"I know what happened here if that's what you mean," the man replied, lit the last torch, and turned to face Gerald. "It's a part of the tapestry, of the Tarrant name. After all, one can't pick and discard family depending on one's liking."

 

There was an unsettling feeling growing in the Hunter's bosom, of things unsaid and secrets hidden in this stranger's very being. He gazed into those grey eyes, the face so like his own yet subtly different as if they were long lost cousins.... or ancestor and descendant separated by centuries yet to come.

 

"You didn't answer my question."

 

"Can't you guess? I'm one of your kin. Mikael Tarrant at your service." A perfectly executed bow followed the proclamation with an out swept arm and bended knee. A long golden braid dropped over the young man's shoulder.

 

Vanity? Hardly surprising, Gerald thought.

 

A bell rang in the castle; the bell summoning the children to the evening meal. Gerald almost drowned in the memories but no, he was not in the past, and he ruthlessly suppressed them.

 

"I'm afraid I must be off. Father hates it when I'm late to meals but I can't leave you here all alone," the man said, all the while smiling, but now his smile turned cold and his grey eyes hardened like iron. Before the Hunter could Ward, the young man performed a series of gestures with both his hands interlocking and then releasing again. A Banishing, he realised and both the spell and caster were powerful. Violet light seeped from the dark corners of the room and was drawn into the man's hands.

 

_A working with Dark Fae. How does he know-_

 

The light exploded from the man's hands and rushed toward Gerald. It left the young man's face so pale that at that moment he resembled his ancestor.

 

"But I've been rude after you've come from so far away. I'll tell you this: my mother is a Tarrant but I was not born of a woman." The man smiled that irritating smile of his and Gerald wanted to retaliate but the light swept over him and swept him away.. back to his own time...........

 

.......... Mikael Tarrant exhaled and walked out of the room, trying valiantly not to fall down on his face. The spell was a powerful one and he didn't practise as often as his mother wanted him to. He swayed and placed one hand on the cold stone wall. By the time he reached the dining hall, he regained his composure. This dining hall was the smallest in Merentha Castle, yet could still host a small party of twenty, but his father liked it because of the warm red and gold tapestries and curtains and Mikael's mother always indulged his father. Well, in the harmless things at least.

 

There was a large armchair with a tall back facing the fireplace. Mikael walked around it and dropped to his knees, burying his face in his father's lap like when he was little. A calloused hand dropped to tousle his hair. His father liked to tease him about inheriting his mother's good looks and its apparently genetic vanity.

 

"Where have you been?"

 

Mikael looked up from his prone position into his father's face. It was a very masculine face, cut with fine lines from age and hard-won experience. A touch of grey was appearing at the temples. But even entering his fifth decade, his father had not lost the strength of his gaze or his body. A warrior, a priest, and a healer. So many contradictions, Mikael thought ruefully. Perhaps that was what drew his mother to him. They were certainly as complete opposites as could be.

 

"I was entertaining a visitor from the future."

 

His father laughed; a short genuine bark of good humour.

 

"Not another of your fancy tales, boy. You are nearly twenty years old. It's time for you to assume your responsibilities," his father paused, "I knew _Uncle Karril_ was a bad influence."

 

Before Mikael could defend his favourite uncle, the door to the hall opened and brought a distinct presence with it. _A touch of white frost, a fleeting impression of a cold northern wind, and an all-enveloping embrace of blackest night._ That was the signature of his mother's aura, he learned to associate it with him before he grew old enough to understand that he was an adept and that normal people - _the mundane, child_ \- could not identify people by the way they felt. His father though, always felt like the warmest summer afternoon, and Mikael pressed himself a little closer to that warm tide.

 

His mother was dressed in robes of deepest blue with silver thread woven in a pattern of stars at his collar. He frowned at Mikael and said, "Stand up, please. And explain to me what spell you wrought in the dungeons." His voice was calm, cool, and showed no emotion.

 

Mikael could never remember a time when it was otherwise. His mother was always a distant, if beloved, figure in his life and seemed so much like one of those god-like beings from Old Earth stories, powerful and untouchable, and Mikael should know since he knew several so-called gods on a first name basis.

 

His father though...

 

"The dungeons?!" his father exclaimed. "Mikael, how many times must you be told to stay away from there?"

 

He winced; his father's voice was increasing rapidly in volume.

 

"I keep telling you we should wall that room and seal it permanently."

 

"You know it wouldn't solve the problem, Vryce."

 

Uh-oh. His mother only used that name when...

 

And an age-old argument continued throughout the evening meal.

 

Mikael tried to keep his mouth full of food and appear innocent. It was not easy when one had parents such as his.

 

~ End ~


End file.
